


Uncanny, Friend

by Kasparovv (slytherintbh)



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Blood and Gore, halloween fic, transformations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-13 21:41:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16480271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherintbh/pseuds/Kasparovv
Summary: “Hey. Xeph. Have you got pink eye?”Xephos blinks at the question. “Is that a euphemism for something?” he asks, head tilted in usual puppy fashion. “Or what?”In which Xephos undergoes some changes. Honeydew is, of course, at his side.





	Uncanny, Friend

**Author's Note:**

> uh general warning for some gory stuff and animal death. thanks for reading this choppy mess <3

“Hey. Xeph. Have you got pink eye?” 

Xephos blinks at the question. “Is that a euphemism for something?” he asks, head tilted in usual puppy fashion. “Or what?”

“Nah.” Honeydew smirks - of course Xeph wouldn't know, useless human - and taps at the base of his own eye. “Yours. 's pink.”

True enough,  Xephos’ scelera are tainted rose, blue pupils a strange blot in the red sea. It’s a familiar sight to Honeydew - many of his clan members got it at one point or another, usually because of mining dust. 

“Does it itch?” he questions.

“Not really. Not at all, actually.” Xephos grimaces. “Should it - should it itch?”

“Think so. Maybe yer a lucky case. I wouldn’t worry about it.” 

They don’t. They traverse the wilderness around Mistral for a day, catching fish from the brooks with their bare hands, snatching them straight from the water in a technique that they have committed to muscle memory. When they get back to the house, the pink has only worsened in the yellow light, but it’ll be fine. Usually clears up in a couple days, anyway. 

*

It doesn’t. 

“That looks… horrible,” Peculier notes a few mornings later, glancing across the table. He’s half-tucked into a steamed fish, separating the white flesh from the bone. “Are you alright, hero?”

Honeydew watches as Xephos stirs his oats for the fifteenth time, staring at them as though they will reveal the answer, and shrugs. There’s no denying it by now - the mysterious infection is not clearing up and has moved very solidly into the zone of red, if not the zone of ‘genuinely kinda weird.’ Funny really, for someone who has no problem with bathing once every month at best, Xephos is terribly self-conscious about his appearance all of a sudden. 

“It’ll be fine,” he mumbles, and takes a constitutional bite of his oats. “Doesn’t hurt, or anything.”

“That is a relief, at least,” Peculier replies, gently cornering off his small pile of bone. “If you have need of any medicine, we can try to talk to Swampy, or even Fumblemore, although he is further afield.”

“I wouldn’ ask Fumblemore for any more favours, medical or magical,” Honeydew interrupts. “He’ll blow up yer head.”

“Horrifying, thank you, Dew.” Xephos shudders, and wrings his hands. “Let’s not do any more dying for a bit.”

*

Honeydew lets his friend rest for a couple days. There’s always a chance that he’s contagious, and the last thing any of them want is for the virus to spread, so Xephos relaxes with some reading in their bedroom as Honeydew romps around the countryside. 

When he finally gets home, he finds Xephos perched on the edge of the bed, clipping his fingernails, shedding moon crescents onto the wood flooring. The metal scissors flash with the motion.

“Didn’t ye do that yesterday?” Honeydew asks, plopping his backpack down. “Ye won’t have any fingers left. I’ll have to start calling ye ‘stumpy’.”

If Xephos starts talking about ‘cuticles’ or some shit, Honeydew is  _ out _ . Mercifully, his friend just shakes his head and scowls. “They’re growing back much more quickly than usual.”

“Well, if it becomes a habit, ye better start sweeping in here.”

“I will, friend, don’t worry.” The glancing grin up at Honeydew passes in a flicker of red that makes Honeydew’s stomach swoop in an uncomfortable and somehow nostalgic dive. He elects to ignore it. After all the shit that’s gone down in the past few years, flashes of familiar feeling are par for the course. 

He just shakes his head. “Alright, Xeph. You should get outside at some point. Yer gettin’ pale as anythin’ cooped up inside.”

*

For the first time in their shared past, Xephos suddenly becomes engrossed in a book. A stack of tomes has been gathering dust on their dresser for months now, all ancient memoirs that Peculier salvaged from an abandoned village. Every one is threadbare, bound in cracked leather, the colour and texture of water-starved dirt that has ruptured into fissures. One wrong look would make them fall apart. Still, Xephos is using his convalescence to plow through them all. 

“They’re really quite interesting,” he says. As is becoming commonplace, he is lying atop the bedcovers, book propped in his lap. He’s even paler, eyes a blaring contrast to his face, and he has a slight fever. Honeydew notes that his blue pupils are starting to look less severe against the overwhelming crimson; it is possible that the virus is shifting.

“I’m sure they are,” Honeydew replies. “You’ll hafta tell me about ‘em.”

“You could just… read them yourself.”

“All o’ that?” There’s at least six piled on the bedtable, and Honeydew snorts. “I have better things te do.”

“Like what?” 

“Like fixin’ stuff around the town.” In the year since the battle, they’ve made Mistral fairly livable, all things considered. Sure, some houses have been reduced to ivy-stricken wood floors, and there’s plenty to be working on, but it’s not the mess they originally returned to. Lysander has even started inviting people back. 

“Fair enough,” Xephos says. “Anyway. I’m at an interesting bit.” 

Interesting way of saying ‘piss off’, but Honeydew takes the hint.

*

Food starts to come back from the bedroom untouched. Daisy gives an offended snort every time, although her brow is lined with worry. She puts together a plate for Xephos on an evening anyway - better to try - and sometimes he’ll eat it. Not often enough. 

It’s been three weeks, teetering into four, and there’s no sign of improvement from the ghostly figure in the bedroom. He’s white as a sheet, verging on emaciated judging by the slenderness of his wrists. Fear is becoming a common look on Xephos’ face when he thinks Honeydew isn’t watching; he has thrown himself into the largest, and last, of the memoirs. 

From what he’s been told, Honeydew has surmised that the diaries are hundreds of years old, predating the wall by no small margin, preserved by abnormally intensive care on the part of the villagers. They detail the minutiae of the village's life to a ridiculous degree. There is something charming about it, though, the tales of simple farmers and the methods they used, the games of the children, the relationships forged in the community. It’s life as told by the poorest and the humblest - stories often forgotten. Whatever is happening in the final tome is enough to consume all of Xephos’ waking hours.

Neither Daisy nor Peculier can get much out of him. Honeydew is struggling, until one evening, when he finds Xephos not in bed, but at his desk. Again, the sharp turn of his head at Honeydew’s entry sparks intense deja vu, so much so that there is a pause as the dwarf gets his own head in order.

“Hey pal,” he soothes. “You doing okay?”

After a moment, Xephos stands, leaning like broken fence. “Honeydew,” he says, in a voice as deadly serious as it’s ever been. “Can you please read this?”

Obviously a summary is out of the question, so Honeydew heeds the request and takes place in the chair, tummy not fluttering so much as buzzing with tension. The book is open about halfway, a vellum page delicately presented with neat slanted handwriting. Every page edge is moth-eaten, but it’s perfectly readable. 

There is no explicit date. 

_ \- have ended the trouble, yet we fear it shall return,  _ it begins, and already Honeydew hates this.  _ My sister bade me write an account of our observances, so that any future man may take good precaution against the looming Evil that has plagued us so many years. We know not its true Name and cannot banish it in the old ways, but enough is known that it maye be killed in timely fashion. _

_ Once the great Evil has been banished in proper form, peace will return to the home and land and all maye rejoice in the good fortune afforded to our fine peoples. However, there must be guard against the sickness that may followe. Man, woman, but never child, maye be struck by a terrible affliction. Only twice in ten generations has this vile beast been resurrected in our own towne, and so we believe it can happen anywhere in this realm, and that our message must be spread on rapid tongue that it may reach all four corners of the earth.  _

_ The pale faced man shall return in this waye: _

“Nope.” Honeydew says, and pushes the book so quickly that it almost meets the wall. “No.”

“Read it,” Xephos insists. 

“You’re a hypochondriac, that’s what you are,” Honeydew says, too quickly to his own mind. “Only, instead o’ thinkin’ you got twenty tumours, you think you’re turning into Isra-”

“ _ Please _ read it.” The desperation in Xephos’ voice is enough to make Honeydew pull the book back and flush guiltily. 

_ The pale faced man shall return in this waye: _

_ The afflicted shall not notice their own sickness, and it will cause them little pain upon its starting. First comes the deviles eyes, which are the colour of blood, although this alone is not enough to condemne any man to death. It is followed by the paleness that affords the demon its name, and the skin shall become white, and cold to the touch, and his handes shall become clawes. They shall become reclusive, in our experience quickly volatile and wrathful, and hide their foulness from the eyes of others, that they shall not be killed. All skin will become alike to bone, and their mouth slender and wide, and they shall lose their fleshe. Once the transformation is this far it is Vital that the possesed person be executed by way of stoning or - _

He has read enough. Honeydew closes the book and stares at the cover for a full minute, mind whirring with the effort of taking it in. The hand that finds his own is frigid, and smooth, and when he looks down he notices the sharp nails that Xephos cuts every day now left to grow; they are turning black at the base.

“You ain’t violent,” he finally says, despondent.

“No,” Xephos replies, quietly. “Further on it says that there are reports of people who kept their minds. At - at least for a while. There wasn’t a whole lot of detail beyond what you read.”

“Nothin’ on what to expect?”

“Not really.” The words are punctuated with a nervous sigh. “I think in that village they uh, got rid of the infected person before they could change any further.”

Well.

Honeydew stands and throws his arms around his friend, burying his face into Xephos’ stomach. They stand together in silence for a long time, one hand carding through Honeydew’s wild mane, both searching for something.

“I’ve kept a secret from you,” Xephos admits. “Something Israphel told me.”

“...Alright,” Honeydew mumbles, not moving. 

“He said that… you remember when we were split up, and you found me in that cell with him? He said that he was me. Nothing more than that, but I assume a past self, or, or something. It bothered me for a long time, but, christ, I had to get on with life. Only.” There is a pregnant pause. “I think that the role of Israphel is hereditary. It passes on to like - the most eligible person.”

“And that would be you,” Honeydew realises.

“It’s always  _ gonna  _ be me,” Xephos says. “Unless some  _ really _ evil bastard turns up, I’m automatic heir.”

“And... we’re invulnerable.”

“Yep.” They part, Xephos flattening his hair with a shaky hand. “This is officially  _ my  _ problem.”

“It’s  _ our _ problem,” Honeydew corrects. “Like hell are you dealin’ with this alone. Yer my best friend.”

“I - yeah, okay. I saw that coming. But, promise me something, friend. If I do start to behave… strangely, don’t hesitate to do what you have to.” The idea is so abhorrent that Honeydew opens his mouth to argue without a single word prepared, but Xephos places a slender finger to his lips, and glares. “I’m serious, Dew. It won’t be me in there anyway, it’ll be  _ him _ . We killed Israphel once. You might have to do it again.”

“Alright. Alright, fine,” Honeydew lies.

*

Thinking on it a few days later, it all seems rather obvious. 

All the pieces fit together now. The symptoms create a definite whole. It’s a terrifying, awful, unfair whole, but a whole nonetheless, and Honeydew wonders that he hadn’t put two and two together sooner. Now the only person allowed into their bedroom (because christ alive, how do they tell KP and Daisy about this) he can’t help but fixate on the familiarity of the changes. Taller, thinner, sharper, it’s all explicitly Israphel, and a million miles from the soft pinkness of Xephos. 

“Will you still love me when I’m not young and beautiful?” Xeph croons, and gets an immediate punch on the arm for his efforts.

Perhaps they should be more afraid. God, Honeydew  _ is _ afraid, it sits like a constant well inside of him, but they continue to jape and joke. It’s infinitely better than wallowing in the inevitable end of this. And it seems much more inevitable as the baby blue of Xephos’ eyes has turned to a mottled orange, pupil receding altogether. The person behind the eyes is familiar and kind, but the colours are stark. The eyes of the enemy.

*

Peculier is suspicious. 

“Peculier is suspicious,” Xephos says. He's been pacing the floorboards for half an hour, feet bare, trousers now above his ankles. “He keeps knocking on the door and asking after me.”

“I’ve been fendin’ him off too,” Honeydew sighs from his perch on the bed. 

“We can't keep this a secret forever.” Pausing in his twitchy walk, Xephos scratches at the remainder of his beard, although it's been falling out in patches over the past few days. Out of everything - the white skin, the red eyes, the slow muscle loss - it’s this that has actually made Xephos cry. Even while they were travelling he put a lot of effort into keeping his facial hair perfect. Now he doesn’t have a choice. 

And he’s right, of course. They live under the same roof as Peculier and Daisy. It was always going to be impossible to keep this to themselves.

Xephos is wringing his hands, fingernails getting in the way. “What if he kills me?” he mutters. 

The thought of it makes Honeydew feel sick, sick in a low heat that overwhelms him, and he shakes his head. “Nah. KP might have hated Israphel, but he ain’t a bastard. He’s gotta be more reasonable than that.”

“I - I mean.” The pacing starts again, faster. “It would be fine. I’d just regenerate. But it would happen again.”

“Yer sure about that?”

“Positive.” Xephos grimaces. “99% sure.”

This is their reality. All that is human will die, until they are left with a Xephos in an Israphel, presuming he can keep the violent soul away. So far that seems likely, as he’s not demonstrated anything out of the ordinary besides a mild case of depression, which is better than expected. 

“We gotta tell them,” Honeydew realises. “Like, now.”

“Yeah,” Xephos agrees. He pauses, then moves to ruffle his friend’s hair. “We do.”

*

“Don’t freak out,” Honeydew says, for the third time. “You promise me you ain’t gonna freak out?”

“I’m not going to freak out,” Peculier replies, also for the third time. “I don’t see why Daisy can’t be here. She is not easy to upset. Is he very ill? If so, I appreciate your attempts to shield us from the worst, but -”

“Just go in.” Heart in his mouth, he knocks on the bedroom door, listens for Xephos’ shaky ‘ _ enter’ _ , and opens it.

Xephos is sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bed, back to the door. He coughs, stands, and turns to face them, hands resting atop one another. The hybrid of his face is confusing in that it is both him and his other self, still possessing his unmistakable nose, his sharp jaw and brown hair, but also bearing the hallmark gaze of hell, and now a slight crack at the corners of his mouth.

Peculier is speechless.

“We can explain,” Honeydew says. “It’s not as bad as you think.”

Peculier is still speechless.

He turns heel and walks away without so much as an ‘oh’. 

“I suppose he didn’t kill me,” Xephos mumbles, sinking back to the bed. 

“He didn't do anythin’ else, either.” With a dither, Honeydew shuts the door and sits next to his friend, holding an impossibly slender hand in his own clumsy palm. “Do y’reckon he's gone to tell Daisy?”

“Probably.” Xephos picks at his nails. They're full length, black as pitch, and suddenly very distracting.

“They look annoyin’.”

“God, they are, I have no idea how Israphel used these bloody things. And to say he was so good with a bow, when I -”

It very quickly becomes a heated tirade, one that Honeydew half-listens to with a tired smile, nervous of any footsteps that might approach their door. None come - until almost midnight, and then they pass by to the other bedroom, where a discussion passes in low whispers. Being ignored is better than the alternative, so they sleep easily. 

It's when one afternoon becomes two days, then a week, then two, that they realise they are being avoided.

*

It's a little difficult when you share a house.

At this point, Xephos doesn't leave his room, mourning the final hairs of his beard in solitude. Honeydew makes sure to go out for walks and escape it all. He bumps into Peculier and Daisy in the kitchen, on the landing, in the lounge, and their conversations are stilted. It's tough to gauge their feelings. Daisy especially. He doesn't know what Peculier passed on from his glimpse of reality, but it's silenced Daisy's usual cheerful patter to curt sentences. Angry? Honeydew suspects she's angry. 

Peculier seems to be in some kind of shock, flighty at best. It's no surprise. It's not an irrational response. It just - in Honeydew’s own words - sucks.

*

“We're going on a trip,” Daisy says one morning, sleepless eyes focusing on her meagre meal. “To Terrorvale. For a couple weeks.” 

This is all Honeydew hears of it. They're packed and gone in a few hours, talking low and secretive to one another. It's good in some ways - Xephos can finally be released from the prison of their bedroom - but Honeydew can't help but feel a little betrayed by their flight. 

He also hadn't realised just how caged Xephos was feeling. As soon as the door clicks shut behind the retreating pair, Xephos is halfway down the stairs, no doubt waiting on the landing like an eager dog. He pokes his head into all the kitchen cupboards and finds as many sweet treats as he can, wolfing them down until he has to admit defeat and presses a bar of homemade chocolate into Honeydew’s hands. Then he bursts out through the backdoor.

“Xeph, you might wanna put some shoes on -”

The words die on Honeydew’s tongue when he catches sight of his friend. Xephos is standing eerily still, face turned to the morning sun, expression wiped clean and blissful. 

“Warmth,” Xephos croaks. “Fresh air.” 

Tears are trickling over the expanse of his cheeks but he's smiling. A terrible nameless feeling takes root in Honeydew’s chest, something like guilt and something like fondness.

“Shall we have a picnic?” Chocolate has melted all over Honeydew’s fingers. “Find a nice meadow?”

“I'd love that.” 

They pass the day in tranquility, although Xephos is embarrassingly grateful for many things he never used to question. It's all serving to solidify the certainty that is taking root in Honeydew’s mind… that his friend is not dangerous and probably will never be. At least, no more dangerous than he was before. If Israphel and Xephos are the same person then perhaps the kindness of Xephos can override the maliciousness of his past self.

He actually eats some of what Honeydew makes for dinner that night. Just a few handfuls of rice and a curious nibble of boiled potato, but it's more than they've achieved in a long time, so the issue isn't pressed any further.

“When did you say they were going to be back?” Xephos is toying with a half-moon of carrot, flicking it from hand to hand. It's getting gradually dirtier from the surface of the table. 

“Couple weeks,” Honeydew replies, talking around a mouthful of potato. “ I wouldn't be surprised if it ended up bein’ longer, though.”

At that, Xephos doesn't reply. His expression is discreetly glad. 

*

Almost a month, they take. In that time the changes slow slightly, to Honeydew’s relief, although he suspects that the apparent peace hides other problems, a veneer of calm. Cracks form at the edge of Xephos’ mouth like cold sores and bleed, painful and raw. He scarcely seems to notice. When he isn’t devouring every page of Peculier’s novels (careful not to damage the pages with his nails), he is dragging Honeydew out to see the world.

It’s a change of pace. Yes, a change of pace from the last month or two, but also from the way they’ve been living ever since  _ all that _ , and the roughshod domesticity they’ve fallen into. 

*

In a single, flashing movement, Xephos has the salmon in hand, nails piercing red as the fish flails helplessly. His gaze is unwavering in its focus. Again, in one swing of the arm, he brings the salmon’s skull down into a stone on the stream bank, and it dies with a final wet gasp. 

He throws the catch atop the pile. Honeydew smirks, ducks down, and plunges his own hands into the chill of the stream.

*

The bliss of eating dinner together at the kitchen table is quickly forgotten when there comes a knock at the door. Xephos shoots up, almost hits his head on the overhanging light, and flees for the stairs without looking back. Honeydew suddenly doesn’t really want his dinner - he pushes his plate away and goes to the door, opening it to let in the white light of the moon and the long shadows of Peculier and Daisy, both none-too-surreptitiously scanning the room before they enter.

“Nice holiday?”

Daisy fails to hide her relief at the lack of Xephos, slinging her bag onto the floor and yawning widely. “Very nice, thank you.”

“Sorry for interrupting your meal,” Peculier mumbles, realising that it won’t have been a dinner for one. “But we brought some cake back, if you’d like it.”

As a matter of a fact Honeydew doesn’t, but he feels it would be impolite to refuse. They sit around the table and he’s regaled with tales of the past few weeks. It’s all pretty tame - just days at the beach, walks around the village, odd discoveries. Honeydew has to hold his tongue when he wants to share his own stories. They’re equally pedestrian, but he remembers them so fondly, if only for the fact it’s the happiest he’s felt in so long. 

“I’m tired,” Daisy insists, with a yawn, and promptly goes to bed. It leaves Peculier and Honeydew to sit in uncomfortable proximity, which is to say, in the same room, and Honeydew senses a set-up.

“You’ve been okay?” Peculier starts.

“Yeah, we’ve been alright.”

“No problems?”

“Nah. The bath’s playin’ up a bit but we’re used to that anyways.”

“Ah, good.”

Obviously not the problems he meant. Peculier can’t seem to find the words, but Honeydew can.

“Look, don’t start on all that. He ain’t gonna hurt you or anyone else, fer that matter.”

“Daisy and I have been talking about it, and we just think we need to consider safety -”

“Talk all ye like,” Honeydew snips, pushing his chair back. “Until you actually ask Xeph about it, I don’t really care for your opinion.”

It’s pitch black in the bedroom when Honeydew walks in, only a few sharp minutes later, and yet Xeph is still visible in the darkness, sitting up in the covers and staring at the far wall. It’s hard to know what to say.

*

One night, Xephos feeling queasy becomes a long trip to the bathroom. The first smatters of blood he brings up sets a wave of panic in Honeydew’s gut - and it doesn’t stop. He brings up so much of it that Honeydew is afraid that Xeph’s actually dying, body rejecting the changes, ripping itself apart from the inside. He alternates between pacing and resting a soothing hand to his friend’s back. 

“Is this part of the deal?” Honeydew asks in a quaver.

Xephos lifts his head from its resting position above the toilet bowl. Red stains stand blotchy against the chalk pallor of his skin. “I don’t know,” he pants. He sounds exhausted. “I think - I think so. Don't think Israphel has the same internal - uh, kit.”

“That's not horrifying,” Honeydew says, without thinking. Thankfully Xephos laughs, a resigned sound that shifts into a groan.

“It certainly feels like my organs are reorganising themselves,” he mumbles. 

Neither of them have died since - well - all of that business. They can only hope that the regeneration process will continue, but it's no guarantee, and it's not often that Honeydew has to feel fear on his friend's behalf. Watching Peculier plunge into the toxic sea below was the worst moment of his admittedly amnesiac life. Honeydew doesn't want to add losing Xephos to that.

“Do ye want anything?” Honeydew asks, gentle.

“A cup of tea,” Xephos mumbles. “Fuck this. I don't care what it does to me at this point.”

A fair sentiment. Honeydew pats his friend on the back and steps out of the bathroom. To his surprise, Peculier is standing outside. His hands are clasped at his front, knuckles white, and he is breathing in controlled waves.

“Heya, KP.”

“Honeydew,” Peculier nods, and glances at the door. “Is Xephos… is he okay?”

“Chuckin’ up his internal organs, it seems like, so who can say.”

Furrowing his brow, Peculier stares, and then grimaces. “You meant that literally.”

“Sure did. It’s a warzone in there, mate.” 

The whiteness around Peculier’s hands fades as he loosens his grip, and he clicks his tongue. “I am sorry, hero. Xephos is obviously suffering.”

As if to punctuate his point, there comes another muffled heave, and a low groan of pain. They wince in unison. 

“Yeah, he ain’t… doing so great.” Honeydew feels worry underneath his skin like an itch. “He’s copin’ okay, all things considered. I’m copin’ okay. It’s just a lot.”

“I’m sure.” Peculier sounds ashamed. “I apologise for my coldness. I confess I did not know what to think.”

“Israphel ruined yer life. Neither of us are mad about it.”

“Even so, Xephos is my friend. You are my friend.” Peculier pats Honeydew’s shoulder. “I ought to have listened, even just a little. Not only for your sake, but for Daisy’s. She is extremely confused by it all.”

“What did you tell her?” Honeydew asks.

“Not enough.” 

“... To be fair, there ain't much to say.” Scratching at the back of his neck, Honeydew smiles, a funny lopsided thing he's picked up from Xephos. “He can explain it better than me, but we get it if you ain't up to that.”

There's a long pause, in which Peculier hums a private tune. “I want to know,” he finally admits. 

“Well, when this shit is over with, I'm sure he'll tell ye.” 

“That would be very kind.”

“He's good like that. Although, uh, I was gonna get him some tea -”

Peculier raises a hand. “Let me,” he says. “It's the least I can do. You keep him company.”

Honeydew is hardly about to argue with that. He re-enters the bathroom to find Xephos slumped against a wall with his eyes shut, and Honeydew panics for a terrible second, until he sees the unnaturally slow rise and fall of measured breathing. 

“Finished, do you think?” 

Honeydew barely dares to ask.

Opening one eye, Xephos nods, and shuts it again. Blood is flecked like paint splatter along the toilet rim and in an artistic daub on the floor. It's enough to turn any stomach. Honeydew wipes it away - that's a towel ruined - and finds another towel to dab at Xephos’ mouth, his sweat-soaked brow.

“Thank you,” Xephos whispers. “You're an angel, Dew.”

“I'm just yer friend,” Honeydew smiles. There's a knock on the door, barely audible, betraying Peculier's nerves. “And here's your tea. Come in, KP.”

To his credit, Peculier does a good job of masking his horror at the sight that meets him, eyes settling on the watered-down streaks of red that Honeydew hasn't fully managed to remove, before taking in the odd visage of someone halfway to monster.

“Your tea.” 

He passes it to Honeydew, who lifts the mug to his friend's lips, trying not to spill the contents down Xeph’s front as he downs it in one. A few drops discolour his white shirt to caramel. 

“Thank you,” Xephos says, once the mug is drained and he's looking a little perkier, mouth wiped clean of blood and tea. “Might need help getting to bed.”

Peculier jumps to action, breaking free from his horrified daze to wrap an arm at Xephos’ waist and act as a human crutch. He's dwarfed in height; Honeydew peers at Xeph's ankles and notices that his trousers are a good inch too short. They stumble out of the bathroom and onto the landing. Xephos uses one arm to wrap about Peculier's shoulders, the other stretched out to balance him against any available wall.

It's rather sweet, really, after months of radio silence between them. 

Honeydew only follows the distance to the door. He suspects they'll want to talk - and they do, in low voices that are only distinguishable in depth and exhaustion. Only the last few sentences are audible:

_ I’m sorry, Hero, for the way I have treated you - _

_ Look, don’t be. I get it. Believe me, I do. _

And Honeydew peers through the doorway and smiles at the sight of Peculier sitting on the bedsheets, Xeph comfortably wrapped in a duvet and blankets. They both turn, prompting Peculier to stand and dip his head, a conciliatory nod in Honeydew’s direction, before he disappears from the room.

In silence, Honeydew clambers up into the dip that KP has left, snuggling into Xeph’s side. An arm reaches round to draw him close. They lie in the flickering light of the candles and Honeydew watches the moon glowing outside. Eventually he stirs. 

“You okay now?”

Xephos nods. 

“Could do with another drink,” he says.

It takes Honeydew a few minutes to find a clean glass, fill it up and sneak up the stairs, avoiding the shadow of Daisy moving around in the lounge. He edges through the gap in the bedroom door. Xeph looks half asleep, opening his eyes the slightest distance as Honeydew passes him the glass of water, which he takes gratefully.

“Thanksss,” he sighs.

*

“Ow.”

Honeydew rolls his eyes.

“ _ Ow.” _

_ “ _ Look, pal, are you gonna keep this up the whole time? Cause if so-”

“It  _ hurtsss,”  _ Xephos whines, for the hundredth time in an hour. “And you're not being gentle, friend.”

At this point, Honeydew doesn't deign to reply and soaks a fresh towel. He's been daubing blood away from the rent of Xeph's mouth every damn day for a week now. Left alone the cracking skin congeals into a foul bloody mess. This way, at least, the process is a bit less horrible to watch. 

In a way it's also fascinating. The entire shape of Xeph's jaw must be changing to accommodate the wide array of canines that spanned Israphel’s mouth, join moving ever backwards as the skin of his cheeks splits open in an unnatural jagged line, hardening to carapace as it goes. As Honeydew wipes away the last of the mess he is careful not to stare at his friend's mouth of brutal teeth. Still freaks him out. 

“Ow.”

“Xephos, I swear on me fuckin’ life -” 

In spite of himself Xephos grins. “Sssorry friend. Maybe I'm taking a few libertiesss.”

“Gee, you don't say,” Honeydew grumbles. “Idiot.”

*

“Thiss iss bullshit,” Xephos complains. They have run out of bread. He pokes one sharp finger at the empty cupboard and scowls, fissures deepening at his cheeks. In the past he’d have run a hand through his hair, only it would come out in a clump these days, and he’s being very precious about the little that remains. “I don’t have to eat much, but a little ssomething fresh would not go amisss. I can sstill tasste, might asss well usse it.”

“Ye’ll have to take that up with Daisy.” Honeydew is happily munching on a pear, perched on the edge of the table. “She makes it.”

“She iss not talking to me.” The words are not accusatory. “You should assk.”

“What do you eat, anyway? Is there something, uh, special?”

“Meat isss good,” Xephos says. “But it iss hard to chew. I feel like usssing my teeth to rip it apart would make people… uncomfortable.”

“Yer probably right,” Honeydew concurs. He’s happy to live without that visual, thank you very much. 

“Alssso, I need ssome new clothess.” By way of explanation, Xeph shows his sleeves, which are halfway up his boney forearm, and gestures to his ankle, trousers a good few inches short. “It’ss getting ressstrictive wearing thessse.”

“What were you thinkin’?” Honeydew has already noticed this predicament… it’s rather hard not to.

“Perhapssss… a cape.”

Honeydew raises one eyebrow.

“I'm ssseriouss.”

“I know ye are, that's the problem. Surely that ain't the best idea. If you're tryin’ not to look like Izzy.” 

“It'ss rather too late for that,” Xephos jokes humorlessly. “But regular clothesss would look sstupid. I'm more angular than mossst. It alssso accommodatess for any more growth.”

He's right, Honeydew has to admit, that his old outfit looks remarkably out of place. Much too human. Picturing Xeph in the common dress of their peers… also doesn't work. Although the mental image of Xephos in Lysander's hat makes Honeydew giggle.

“Alright,” Honeydew agrees. “I'll talk to KP and see what we've got lyin’ around.” 

“Thanksss.” Xephos has to duck very low to hug his friend but just about manages it. “It meanss a lot.”

*

As it happens, Peculier was meaning to get rid of the red curtains in the lounge, so they manage to sew those into an acceptable sort of tunic, cinched at the waist with a nice cape to cover his shoulders. It’s just enough to keep away from the image of Israphel, while also suiting his new appearance. 

“I like it.” Xeph is admiring the folds in the mirror, even if he avoids the image of his face. “It’sss very fitting.”

“Red’s just your colour, huh?”

Peculier’s also appreciative, although he winces at first, not as discreet as he thinks he's being. “Very commanding,” is his primary compliment, oddly worded as it is. It's enough to set Xeph preening for a good hour afterwards. 

Honeydew certainly wouldn't be able to preen or anything like it, were it him in this situation, and he says as much. Xephos simply shrugs.

“KP iss right, it isss commanding.” With the hood of the cape up, the outfit becomes truly masterful, eyes shining out from the shadows menacingly. “I like that sssomewhat.” He appears menacing for all of a second, then bursts into what amounts to a goofy grin. “It'sss ssorta cool, ssswishing around, I ssee why Isssraphel wore one.”

Honeydew soothes himself with the fact that his friend will always be an incorrigible idiot, appearance be damned.

*

And then, one day, Honeydew walks into his bedroom to find Israphel sitting on the bed reading. And this is entirely normal.

Half a year ago he'd never have believed that was possible. That the sight of red eyes could ever mean anything but trouble. And yet...

He almost can't remember what Xephos used to look like. 

“Hello friend,” Xephos smiles, looking up from his book. “How’ss thingss?”

For reasons Honeydew honestly can't pin, the bridge of his nose burns hot. Tears fill his

eyes. Xephos sees this and immediately shuts his book, hopping off the bed and getting to his knees so that he's marginally nearer Honeydew’s height. 

“What'ss wrong?” he asks, urgent and worried as always. “Honeydew?”

Honeydew shakes his head and wipes at his eyes. “I dunno.”

“Iss there anything I can do?”

“Just gimme a hug.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth Honeydew is enveloped in bony arms, pulled close to soft black folds of fabric. He clutches at it like a lifeline and sniffles into his friend's shoulder. 

“Love you,” he mumbles. 

Xephos squeezes him tighter. “Love you too, friend.”

And that's that.

*

“You don't have to do this,” Peculier says, watching listless from his corner in the kitchen. 

“Yeah, I know.” Honeydew checks his bag for the tenth time. He can hear Xeph rooting through drawers in the front room. “But it’s the right decision.”

Always tough, saying goodbye. Yet it’s time to do so. With only their most prized possessions, Honeydew and Xephos are taking back to the road to their old home, where they’ll - they’ll work something out. It’s kinda up in the air. They’ve been discussing it in half-suggestions for a few weeks now, neither quite daring to say what they mean, altogether too well versed in euphemism. 

Conspicuous as Xeph is, he can’t really stay in a town where people will soon be. Nor does he want to. Living under metaphorical lock and key for so long has more than worn out his taste for the indoors, and he wants to be free again, somewhere that they won’t suffer abuse or the more serious dangers that come with his appearance. Honeydew can recall all too well the suggestions of execution that those old diaries mentioned… he ain’t too fond of the idea.

Beyond that, there’s also the issue of Daisy. If Xephos spends all his time in the house then she spends most of her time out of it, busy in her father’s old smithy, avoiding Israphel at any cost. They’re all familiar with trauma, so it’s impossible to be cross, but it’s obvious that it upsets Xeph and Peculier a hell of a lot. She and KP deserve the comfort of a nice home life. It’s the least that they deserve, actually.

Peculier shuffles his feet, checking with a glance that their horses are still tethered outside the door. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come help a bit?”

“We’ll be okay,” Honeydew chuckles, just as Xeph stalks out of the lounge, only just avoiding hitting his head on the doorframe.

“It’sss all here.”

“Everythin’?”

“Asss much asss we can get on the horssesss.” They’ve packed only the essentials, of course, and Honeydew nods. “Shall we sset off before it sstartss to get dark?”

“Yeah. C’mon.” Rucking one bag over his shoulder, Honeydew nods at the other one, still splayed on the ground. “If ye wanna be helpful, KP, then ye can try get that on the horsie.”

He looks infinitely glad at having a job to do. Together they troop out of the house, saddling their meagre belongings to their mounts - one huge and brown, the other stout and black - and hug their old companion goodbye. Well, Honeydew hugs him. Xeph has to sort of stoop and pat him on the back, an action that definitely makes Peculier uncomfortable rather than soothed. It’s kinda funny, though, so Honeydew manages to laugh in spite of himself.

“Ssso.” Even on his inhuman face, Xeph manages to look melancholy. “Thiss iss it.”

“Look after yourselves,” Peculier says. He’s wringing his hands slightly, eyes bright, but livelier than they’ve been in a long time. “Don’t hesitate to ask for help if you need it. And make sure to visit. Daisy didn’t think she could… come out to say goodbye, but she sent her well wishes. Maybe next time.”

“There’ss no hurry,” Xephos promises. “We only want her to be comfortable.”   
“It’s just unfortunate that ol’ Xephy here happened to turn into her tormentor,” Honeydew concurs. “Hard to get over that kinda shit.”

“In any case, she knows that you mean no harm. And is going to try to get better with it. I’m under the impression she has missed you both.”

Honeydew nods. “I’ve missed her too.” Hefting his satchel to sit a little more naturally, he clambers onto his horse and watches as Xeph does the same, with a lot more grace in spite of his cape. “Thank you for everything.”

“Thank you for saving my love.” At that, Peculier waves them away. “Don’t be strangers, either of you.”

*

Oddly enough, it is not so strange to see Israphel around the Yogcave. Maybe Honeydew is simply used to Xephos as he is now, or maybe they got used to Israphel’s weirdo voyeurism, but he doesn’t blink at the looming dark figure that sweeps around and takes note of what needs fixing, what’s still intact. There’s a hell of a lot more of the former than the latter. It’s hard not to be daunted by the task that lies ahead of them.

“Sseemsss fixable to me.”

Leaning over the crater of the floor, Xeph is scratching at the back of his neck with his claws, head tilted to one side. “If we dissslodged ssome of the ceiling with gunpowder we could sstart to fill it up again.”

“Pretty sure gunpowder got us into this whole mess.” 

“And it might get usss out of it.”

It’s more than just the craters. The floor they put in has rotted, wet with moss and springy underfoot, some boards snapped in the center and some poking up at various angles. Their old furnaces need a deep clean at the very least. Rain and waterfall alike spatter down onto the main floor and soak a significant portion of the room. None of the old chests open without shrieking. All in all, it’s not much of a home. But they have plans. 

In the few days they’ve been here Honeydew’s already set off some wheat growing outside the front door, and Xeph has put up some hanging baskets, assisted by his abnormal height. They’re going to have a room dedicated to their furnaces, a kitchen, a nice dining table made of a fallen tree that Xeph claims to know how to chop. Luxury above luxuries, they’ve started to dig out a bedroom in the farthest wall, because it sounds damn awesome to sleep in a cavern. They’re going to build a bed big enough to fit the both of them. Gosh, they’re going to do a lot of things. 

“You doing okay?” Honeydew asks, nudging his friend in the side. In the leg, really.

“I think sso.”

“Good.”

*

It’s a beautiful morning. 

The sun rises easy on the horizon, shedding light across the rolling hills, and Honeydew wakes in his little makeshift bed, turning see whether Xeph is asleep. He is, surprisingly enough. It’s becoming increasingly common that he’ll while the night away working on some project or other. This morning, however, he’s lying in his own long bed, cracked mouth hanging slightly open, sharp teeth softened by the odd calm of his face. 

Honeydew doesn’t move for a long time, warm and comfortable. The waterfall trickles pleasantly in the distance. They’re going to expand the farm today, and he’s rather looking forward to it.

*

Wind blows through Honeydew’s beard as they stand atop a hill, both peering in search of their next destination. Xephos is clutching at his friend’s hand tightly, and yet manages to be gentle, aware himself even subconsciously, these days. In some ways, nothing has changed.

“You enjoying that cape o’ yours?” Honeydew teases, watching as the red fabric whips around the stature of his friend. 

“Asss a matter of fact, I am, yess.” 

“I could tell by the smug look on yer face.”

“You’re an asss,” Xephos grumbles, schooling his bony features into a poor attempt at annoyance, although he’s plainly amused. “Jusst the worsssst friend.”

“Ah, you love me.” 

“For whatever reasson, I do.” The grip on Honeydew’s hand tightens in a squeeze. “Now come, friend. Let’ss sssee what we can find.” 


End file.
